Page 52 of Lizzie’s Spirit

A very long time has now elapsed since I had the pleasure of writing to you; so long indeed that I’m truly afraid you’ll have supposed either I’m unpardonably indolent or, what is even worse, forgetful, or some unfortunate event has prevented me from writing.

But indeed, none of these have been the true reasons—I’ve been continually buoying myself up with the fallacious hope that some vessel or other would shortly arrive here and return directly to England.

I’m averse to writing via India under the idea that letters must necessarily take so long a time before they reach England by that circuitous route, and also from a want of confidence in the captains of those vessels that trade between Port Jackson and Calcutta or Bombay.

But enough, there’s such constant communication between New South Wales and India, much more so than England, that I’m now resolved to avail myself of such epistolary intercourse.

Hah! In truth, I’m much occupied and ofttimes tired of an evening, so my poor aunt, my correspondence has suffered greatly, with no excuses beyond those attempted above.

You’ll never guess where I sit while writing this letter.

Currently, I’m in Government House seated at the desk of Mrs. Macquarie, the governor’s wife.

For she and her husband have gone off on a grand tour of the settlements of New South Wales.

They are away for some four months, maybe six if they visit Otaheite.

Already they’ve been gone these past three months, so I’ve become quite established in my role as hostess to the acting governor.

Tonight, there’s a formal dinner honouring some foreign ships that have anchored in Port Jackson.

They are Portuguese, and another has a Danish crew, though it is flagged as Swedish.

We’re officially at war, but they do not fly their pennant.

I now speak some of that language, though not very well.

The schoolmistress, Mrs. Kirsten Wrensford (a delightful woman), is Danish and has begun to teach me.

She’s also deputy matron of the orphanage, which role relieves me of much effort, so I’ve time enough to plan those entertainments required of the governor.

Are you not astonished at your impertinent niece in such a position?

If you are not, then you cannot have known me at all!

It seems my genteel birth has established, in the minds of the settlers, that I’m a woman of decorum, good manners, and sense.

Hah! If only it were true. Ofttimes that little child within me wishes to curl up and hide away, and other times to run about with my hair down and roll in the grass, as I once did as a child—how often do I feel such!

But when I think of you and dear Mama, my courage rises sufficiently to face the day and carry on with my duties, at least with some modicum of propriety.

In part, my knowing eight modern languages, in addition to being a gentlewoman, makes my being hostess at the governor’s table quite practical.

By the latter, I’ve sufficient rank to be acknowledged by the captains and officers (since none are titled), and by the former, I can engage with them with ease and facilitate discussion in the drawing-room—though I do hope no Russian vessel comes into port, for I know nothing of that language!

There is some sad news, which affected me greatly.

Mr. Andrew Thompson, whose generosity founded the female school, died some three weeks ago—he was very ill with a disease of the lungs.

We thought that he would recover, for he was first afflicted back in ‘09. But sadly, such was not to be. I had a most sincere and affectionate esteem for him, who became a true friend and, of course, benefactor to the orphans who attend the school. Much to my surprise, he bequeathed his property, St. Andrews, to me. Did I tell you of our visit there last year? Surely I must, or perhaps you’ve read the letters I wrote to Mama.

Is it not absurd that I fled England because that horrid Mr. Collins claimed our estate, but have now become a landowner myself!

New South Wales is such an upside-down place: I rank high because of my connections to dear Uncle Gardiner, and, barely of an age to be out in London Society, I own a large estate and host vice-regal events at Government House.

I’ve a dog! ‘Tis a large black dog with a white streak down the neck, a white tip on the tail, and answers to the name of ‘Bumper’. He was Mr. Thompson’s dearest friend but now has attached himself to me.

Fortunately, even though he sleeps in the house, Bumper is well-trained and has not once caused any inconvenience.

Together, we often walk through the park, down to Sydney Cove, where he runs and splashes, chasing sticks and retrieving them.

One time, he discovered the cows from the orphanage grazing nearby.

I thought he would harass them, but no! He came in behind and drove them back to the dairy.

I was ready to die of laughter, for the girls, who were the cattle’s herders, didn’t know how to direct him and had to run very hard to keep up.

Seeing how natural he was at herding, they now get him to take the cows out each morning and back in each evening—it has made their task much easier.

So much so, it behoves me to obtain another trained dog solely for use by the orphanage, but Bumper enjoys the activity so much I can scarcely deprive him of the work.

Oops, I almost forgot. Did you receive the letter from Stephen Campbell, or perhaps meet his uncle, Robert Campbell, in London?

Though I know nothing of trade, there may be some opportunity to send goods such as farm tools and the like to the colony.

Also, fine English and Scottish woollen cloth and linens are in great demand.

Yet there are no manufactories, and only seal skins and oil seem worth the risk of purchasing and shipping to England.

There’s some wool, but the sheep are quite hairy, though merinos are imported from Spain, which have much finer fleece and may improve the flock.

Nevertheless, in the colony, there’s little demand for raw wool, but much for mutton.

I could ask you of your days and the enjoyments you partake in London; of the concerts to which you’ve gone, and of the plays you’ve seen.

There are no such performances here. They did build a theatre, but much theft occurred when people attended and left their houses unguarded—best not to forget that there are many thieves in this place!

If I need to go out at night to attend a birth, then I’m always accompanied by Sgt.

Monogan or, sometimes, a constable. In town we’re safe, but there are still escaped convicts roaming in the countryside.

I’m assured that physical assaults are rare.

Indeed, women are, perchance, at less risk here of assaults upon their virtue than in England.

As the Lt. Governor of Van Diemen’s Land asserted: ‘the chastity of the female part of the settlement had never been so rigid, as to drive men to so desperate an act.’ Sadly, there’s much immorality and prostitution in the colony despite Governor Macquarie’s encouraging both marriage and church attendance .

Such vice is a serious problem. Not just for the morals of the people, but also for their minds.

In particular, there are many who display a certain madness or delusion, their personalities disturbed by the venereal disease that has afflicted their bodies.

My concern, however, is for the children born of infected women—many of the infants have weak hearts and difficulty breathing, likely an incipient disease of the lungs.

It is very distressing, as a midwife, to bring such an infant into the world.

‘Tis hard enough for those born of poor or indolent parents, but harder still to suffer the misfortune of being born of a tainted womb.

Too often this world is heartless and cruel.

I’m called away, for there are the menu and table decorations to approve.

Since we’re to have officers from the regiment (the 46th), I must ensure they and their wives are seated suitably apart so that table conversation will be pleasant and not acrimonious, as is often the case.

There’s so much cattiness and jostling for position amongst them, and ‘tis I who must smooth their ruffled muslins and tousled cravats.

I’ll finish this letter now, in the hope I’ll write again soon. And I hope there will be some letters from Longbourn when the next ship from England arrives. Whilst I dearly wish to see you and my cousins, my life here possesses many compensations—I’m well content with my situation.

Your loving niece—Elizabeth.

***

Upon the return of the Macquaries, both Elizabeth and Darcy found they missed being responsible to no one but themselves, as they had been when at Government House.

Elizabeth realised she did, indeed, enjoy hosting dinners, soirées, and other entertainments, particularly when she was accompanied by William .

Life as lieutenant governor was full of official business for Darcy and gracious drawing-rooms for Elizabeth.

They had become quite accustomed to it, and the siren call of living in the colony made them think less of returning to England.

For Darcy, his heart was torn, for he very much wished for the company of his father, his brother Frederick, and his sister Georgiana, who, by his reckoning, must now be a fashionable young lady, albeit still not come out or made her curtsey to the Queen.

Perhaps, on the next ship to England, he would send her emus—a pair to breed and roam the grounds of Pemberley—but he would not accompany them.

For Elizabeth, she had promised to return once she secured funds enough to purchase a fare as a cabin passenger, for she could not contemplate journeying below decks on any vessel.

Now, with her owning St. Andrews, the income from the sale of bullocks to the government store alone amounted to four hundred pounds per annum, far more than the fare of two hundred and fifty pounds.

Yet she was torn. She loved William and would stay with him always.

But also, here in the colony, she possessed some importance.

No! Not for her rank—but for her involvement with the orphanage, the school, as midwife.

Could she find such if they were to return to England, where William’s skills as a barrister were merely commonplace and she of little consequence?

It was decided—they would remain and become Australian. As their children would be.

***

Thus, their distress was overwhelming when, on the day after the celebration of Queen Charlotte’s birthday on the 18th of January ’13, Darcy received a black-edged letter delivered by the packet Swiftsure from London.

He read in silence, his face blanching, lips pressed tight.

At last, unable to contain himself, he turned to Elizabeth, eyes shining with unshed tears—

“Frederick,” he whispered, voice rough and barely audible as he sought comfort in her arms. “Frederick is dead—struck down by none other than George Wickham, God curse his soul!”